


Horizon To Horizon

by sasha_b



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-30
Updated: 2011-08-30
Packaged: 2017-10-23 05:56:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A picnic and possibility.  Erik, Charles, outside.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Horizon To Horizon

There are two moments between them that Erik remembers with photo like clarity.

Charles weeping for him, tears filling his huge blues eyes, his hand on Erik’s back, encouraging him to _try again, hm?_ Charles’ brain inside his, tripping lightly, invading, but welcomed even as Erik means to shove him out – he doesn’t want to remember that night, doesn’t want to feel it again as though he had control of what he can remember of his youth.

His mama and the candles and he allows his own tears to fall and the dish moves and Charles is smiling and they are as one entity – one circular pattern of thought, one goal, one success.

He allows the memories to take him; after all, they’re the only thing he has left, and the other moment was so little, so insignificant –

The other moment is such a tiny thing; he can’t believe it’s still there at all.

The sky is bright but the weather deceptively cool. That’s the first thing he remembers; the crispness on his face and hands, his torso covered in a loose fitting sweater, the neck rolled down, buttons fastened, brown cords soft and worn (one pair of pants he’s carried with him for a while) boots appropriately scuffed, hair mussed and air dried. Charles next to him, oddly enough (annoying; the other man should have known) wearing the same color scheme, although his hands are covered by fingerless gloves.

Charles’ cheeks are apple rosy and he carries a small box of some food stuffs they’ve raided from the mansion’s fridge (before Alex and Sean could eat everything). Erik totes a bottle of pinot and the grass crunches under his feet and the satellite dish hulks in the distance, squatting, watching them. He can feel the pull of it, the vibrations of the metal around them always in his brain, but today he’s feeling light and he finds he (needs) wants to have a day of softness and warm sun and what in the bloody _fuck_ has gotten into him?

He shakes his head, smiling to himself as they plod through the grass, little yellow flowers popping their ridiculous heads between the stalks of green. Charles laughs and Erik cocks an eyebrow as they slow, the other man plopping onto the thick carpet of meadow beneath their boots, setting the box of food down between them.

“You can have just a day, you know,” Charles says as he leans forward, opening the lid and licking his lips as he pulls a sandwich free from the container, pushing the box toward where Erik is now sat with his foot. “Not everything is,” he pauses and looks at Erik’s face, eyes wide, as though he were waiting for something

 _not everything is rage, my friend._

Erik pops the wine open and swigs from the bottle before handing it to Charles. His lashes flutter in his periphery as he sighs and half masts his eyes, allowing the burn of the expensive alcohol to enter his body. “Not everything is fun and games, either, Charles.”

“I believe in you, Erik. I believe you know what you’re doing, but you don’t have to rely on just yourself, y’know,” Charles answers earnestly through a mouth full of ham. “Trust me. Don’t you?”

Erik tilts his head; he takes the bottle back and drinks. He coughs and has more – his brain is whirling; he can hear Charles _inside_ as well as his comments –

“I trust you, Charles. It’s the others I don’t trust.”

“No, it’s humans you don’t trust. And I don’t have to be a telepath to know that.”

“Why should I believe in this little army you’ve created? They’re just kids; I change my mind.”

He drinks more and Charles purses his lips and finishes his sandwich, his hands innocently around his food, the fingers going nowhere near his temple. Erik lifts his face to the warmth of the sun and distance chilly breeze and he ponders just what in the hell he’s doing out here. He has a job to do, and by sitting on the ground and listening to Charles Xavier expound on what he _thinks_ Erik is is not helping get that done.

Charles swallows and spreads his glove covered hands, looking down at them. “Erik, the world you’ve experienced is this,” he says. “And the world I can give you is this.” He flings his arms out, fingers pointing in opposite directions, the horizon his only barrier. “The world you and I can be in together is this. Trust me. Trust the children. Trust us.”

Erik’s knee is raised; he rests his right arm on it, his face finally pointed toward Charles, confusion still echoing in his mind, but the idea that Charles presents – it’s compelling. It’s captivating and intense and he wants it to be true, wants the idea he can have something that’s bigger than both of them, bigger than Shaw, bigger than the yacht and the water and the sub and bigger than revenge.

 _Mama and daddy and a room that was 20 by 20. A bed, a table, a chair and four books and a few pieces of clothing. His world, until now._

“Show me.”

Charles meets his eyes, blue on blue and he leans forward and touches Erik’s temples with his hands.

…

Later Erik sits next to Charles on the grass, the ground warm despite the nip in the air from their bodies having been there so long now, sweater unbuttoned, hair wild from the wind, hands on Charles’ shoulders, the other man’s back to his chest. He’s spouting some story or other; that Erik isn’t conscious of. What he is paying hyper attention to is the touch of Charles’ sweater to his, the other man’s legs cradled by his own, Charles’ hair that skims Erik’s jaw now and then as he moves about animatedly as he talks or runs his hands through it. The sun is close to setting, the chill almost a bit too much but Erik sips a bit of the wine that’s left and smiles into Charles’ ear, letting him go on. The satellite dish is humming loudly now, but Erik attributes that to the drink and Charles and he ignores it, ignores the call of his power and without thinking about it brushes his lips over Charles’ left cheek in a blessed moment of silence from the other man.

Charles freezes in mid gesture, and Erik slides his hands from Charles’ biceps to his stomach and lets his sharp chin rest on the other man’s shoulder. Gradually Charles brings his gloved fingers to lie on Erik’s hands, and he shuts his mouth and the sun sets and Erik trusts for one tremulous moment.

He often wonders now when he thinks of Charles and the past why this particular day always comes to him, and why when he remembers it he can only stand to think of those gloved hands, spread wide, fingertips pointing to infinite possibilities, no boundaries, no rules.


End file.
